


something of yours (all of me)

by MoMoMomma



Series: Kinktober 2018 [25]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Exhibitionism, Gunplay, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 03:57:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16421975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoMoMomma/pseuds/MoMoMomma
Summary: He’s only vaguely pissed that the safehouse--of sorts, Rook trips twice going upstairs so safe is a lax term--actually has a functioning DVD player. It makes him wonder if John knew, if he knows about the house. Either that or he was hoping Rook would go looking through every house he came across until someone was willing to buy his “yes, sorry, I was sent a DVD by a crazy cult herald and I need to watch it, please and thank you.” excuse.





	something of yours (all of me)

Rook is a fairly trusting person by nature. Far too trusting, he’s been told numerous times, usually once he’s gotten himself fucked over and whoever is picking up the pieces thinks he’s recovered enough for gloating. His trust is broken as of late, because Eden’s Gate breaks _everything_ , it fucking seems, but still. He wants to be someone who trusts others.

That being said.

He is absolutely not opening the fucking box that got dropped off at Pastor Jerome’s church in the middle of the night, sealed in twine with a note stuck on top that read--in fairly pretty handwriting--For Deputy Rook Only, anywhere near Fall’s End. Or near any other people. He’d said as much, which had made Grace protest and Nick offer to toss the thing into a fire in lieu of actually opening it. 

But he’s sticking to his guns on this one. He’s just barely out of John’s grasp, sprinting from his bunker with smoke and bullets trailing behind him. He’s not about to drag his friends into whatever nonsense this is, not after the panic of them all realizing he’d been taken.

Rook tucks himself away in a little safehouse near the river, beaten down with smashed windows but a fully intact roof. He sends Peaches away, wincing at her annoyed growl as she plods off to find a sunbeam. Rook sets the box on the table, plants himself on the couch, and just stares for a moment. There’s nothing insidious about it, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with plain brown twine and just...plain. Average size.

It makes a little shifting noise when he shakes it, like whatever is inside is wrapped in paper. But it doesn’t explode immediately or, god forbid, come to life and try to eat his hands. 

So...there’s that.

“Alright.” He mutters to himself, flipping open his knife and sliding it under the cross section pinning the note in place. “Here goes nothing. Please don’t be a bomb. Or...like...a fucking ear.”

He wouldn’t put it past John’s crazy ass. And he knows this is John’s doing. No one else is ballsy enough, arrogant enough, to have something delivered to the church in the middle of a town under fire. 

Rook is careful when he rips the packaging off, tossing it aside and lifting the box lid. There’s paper, just like he thought, and nestled inside that, after he digs through and hits hard plastic, is a DVD. Neatly stored in one of those temporary cases he used to buy to store his burnt CD’s in when he was younger.

“Oh, I am not going to love what’s on you.” He tells it seriously, wiggling it in the air.

He’s only vaguely pissed that the safehouse--of sorts, Rook trips twice going upstairs so safe is a lax term--actually has a functioning DVD player. It makes him wonder if John knew, if he knows about the house. Either that or he was hoping Rook would go looking through every house he came across until someone was willing to buy his “yes, sorry, I was sent a DVD by a crazy cult herald and I need to watch it, please and thank you.” excuse. 

Probably the latter. The difficult asshole that he is.

Rook settles himself on the end of the bed, watching the bright blue of the loading screen suddenly go black. He’s instantly angry when the camera fuzzes and comes into sharper focus, the sight of a bed in a bunker clear enough. What the fuck is this? Some snuff film with Hudson? Revenge for Rook escaping and shouting a hundred different versions of “fuck you!” as he did?

He scowls when John rounds, coming into view, whistling cheerfully. He settles on the bed, feet tapping along once the whistling stops, and stares directly into the lens. There’s something against his far thigh, something Rook can’t quite see past the meat of it.

God, he hopes it’s not a piece of Hudson. The bed is actually semi-clean, covered in a blanket without holes or stains. He really doesn’t want to throw up on it.

“Deputy,” John drawls, the accent dragging over the syllables in a now-familiar way. “You left something behind in your little frantic escape. I thought to send it back to you but, upon reconsideration and seeing the _massive_ amounts of carnage your wrath caused on your way out, I’ve decided to keep it.”

“What the fuck.” 

Rook leans closer, squints and tries to see what John lifts from behind his thigh. Only to swear and slam a fist into the bed when he recognizes the gunmetal glint of it. 

That’s his fucking service pistol. He got that when he started at the Sheriff’s station, pressed into his hands alongside his uniform and badge. He honestly thought he’d lost the thing in the Henbane somewhere after an impromptu swimming session.

He’s not very fucking pleased to find out he was wrong. 

“See, I think it’s only fair. A piece of what you have, what makes you who you are. The fabled Deputy’s gun. His personal one too, if I’m not mistaken.” John shifts it in his hands, looks it over, points it an something imaginary off-screen. 

His posture is crappy. The recoil would send his aim wide in a second. But Rook’s more focused on the careful way he removes the clip, tosses it aside like it’s nothing. 

“Now, I considered this. For a very long time, I want you to know.” John shares a secretive little smile with the camera, with Rook, familiarity there that he hasn’t earned. “You know, I do like my little plans. They always tend to work out in my favor. And I thought to myself...what shall I do with this gun?”

Rook’s breath catches in his throat without his permission, something dark and hot in his belly when John drags the barrel over his cheeks, his throat. 

“Throwing it away simply wasn’t an option. I did consider putting a bullet into Hudson’s head with it--poetic, you know? But that plan wasn’t going to get me what I want.”

John’s lips part, tongue flashing out quick, pink enough Rook can see the color through the screen. He groans softly, cock jerking in his pants when John licks a line up the barrel, tongue flickering off the end. It’s purposefully suggestive and Rook hates that it fucking _works_ , has him shifting in place, jeans suddenly too tight.

“And what I _want_ , Deputy, is very easily defined. You already know precisely what it is.”

John places the gun carefully next to him, close enough the stock is bumping against his thigh, and starts to undo the buttons on his vest. It doesn’t take long before it’s discarded off to the side, shirt following soon after. John has even more ink on his chest and stomach than his arms, symbols Rook can’t make out and carved sins that he just barely can.

Including Lust. Stretched above his belly button where it had to hurt like a motherfucker. Rook sure as shit feels like he’s earning that one right about now.

He has to stand up to get his pants down and Rook is not at all surprised to see the briefs underneath are already tented. He picks up the gun, wanders a bit closer to the camera, until all Rook can see is the waistband of his briefs, the expanse of his belly cut off by the gun pressed next to his belly button.

“So I thought...maybe a little quid pro quo. You’ve taken so much of what’s mine and--well.” There’s a laugh, a bit hollow and rough, like John’s forcing it. “I am the reaper. I take what I need. And I do believe I need this gun of yours.”

He steps away, backs up until his calves hit the bed and sits down, lays back. All languid movements as he kicks his feet up until they’re resting on the mattress. 

Rook mutters a filthy curse as he tears at his button and zipper, lifting his hips to shove the fabric down around his knees. His groan almost eclipses John’s when he wraps a hand around his cock, eyes flickering up to watch John drag the barrel down his chest.

“You see, I discovered something rather...interesting about myself in college. Being around such powerful people, there’s always a threat lingering. Guns are a proven way of protection. But I didn’t realize until I had one shoved under my chin that my interest lies in the more...obscure ways guns can be used.”

“You talk too fucking much.” Rook gripes at the TV, hips jerking up into his hand, thighs straining at the waistband. 

“And I have seen you. Oh, have I seen you.” John’s laugh is more real now, guttural as he presses the barrel into the soft underside of his chin and cups a hand over his cock. “You look _good_ with a gun in your hand, Wrath. Like you are meant to be there in that moment, with a weapon at your disposal. You’ve taken so much with your guns...I feel it’s only fitting you give some back.”

Rook grinds his teeth together, tries to stay quiet. There’s something entrancing about watching him drag the barrel over his skin. Hearing him moan as he presses the gun into his softer, fleshy bits. It’s an admittance and Rook knows now why the video was delivered to his eyes only.

God forbid John’s precious Father find out about this. But damn if Rook doesn’t feel something deep in his chest, a sense of pride, maybe, at making John lose it like this.

And he is losing it. Grinding up into his palms, the muscles on his hips and stomach in stark relief as he ruts. He hadn’t even really needed to explain himself, Rook would’ve seen this kink a mile off with the way John moans his name when he strokes his tongue over the barrel. 

“I want this, Deputy. I’m willing to make a trade.” John gasps, trying and failing to keep his gaze on the camera, on Rook behind the lens. “I will leave Fall’s End alone. Whatever you have may stay until I have no other choice. But you will come and you will give me this. Load the clip and press it to my skull while you fuck my throat.”

He wants to. God help him, Rook wants to. Wants to leap up right now and make his way to wherever the fuck John is. Hold him down and make him choke and gag on his cock while he presses the barrel tight to John’s temple.

It’s unsafe and it’s fucking crazy and doesn’t that just suit John Seed perfectly.

John comes with a near shout of his name, echoing around whatever room he’d tucked himself away in. Rook watches it happen, sees the mark of white against the barrel that John had shoved into his briefs. He can’t see his cock--which is probably purposeful because John is nothing but a fucking tease--and Rook finds himself teetering on the edge as John sits up, shaky, still holding the gun.

He looks at the camera, eyes wide, face flushed. 

“Come on, Deputy. It’s a fair trade. And I highly doubt you can say you don’t want it.” His tongue slides out, slicks slow over the line of come, licking it away with a flourish of a curl at the top. “Meet me at my Ranch. Thursday night.”

He huffs, something deranged in the curve of his smile as Rook feels himself start to fall into those too blue eyes, mania bright and fever hot.

“You bring yourself. And I’ll bring the gun.”

**Author's Note:**

> So close to the end of Kinktober! To see past days and see what's still to come check out [this post](http://momomomma2.tumblr.com/post/178633371556/happy-kinktober) on my Tumblr!


End file.
